


I've found [here in this moment prequel drabble]

by oftachancer



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 15:28:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16349300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftachancer/pseuds/oftachancer
Summary: A series of beats leading up to the beginning of the 'here in this moment' series.





	I've found [here in this moment prequel drabble]

9:41 Dragon

 

The snow crunched under his boots as Aran walked. He made sure to make the noise on purpose. Despite the Breach being stabilized - somehow, the odd collection of people who had congregated and were continuing to arrive in Haven were still jumpy, and armed. Whatever they called him, whatever they believed he was - in the dark, in fear, he was just another target for them to swing or shoot at. 

He frowned, kicking a snow-covered log towards the stuttering bonfire in the middle of the camp, rolling it into the flames and dropping to his knees before the fire. Maker, he was exhausted. A week. It had only been a week. He still hadn’t had word from Ostwick. He wondered, had they heard it was his fault? Did they believe that? Was that why…? Or maybe the messengers had just been murdered by demons from the sky. Which was better?

The shadow that brushed past him on the flames was small and stocky. “Varric,” Aran murmured by way of greeting. 

“Glad I caught you alone.” The dwarf offered a sturdy silver flask and Aran took a swig of strong, spiced liquor before handing it back. 

“Thanks.”

“Beats the chill here, a little anyway.” Varric sank into a stump near the fire and sipped from the flask before tucking it away. “So, now that Cassandra’s out of earshot, are you holding up alright? I mean, you go from being the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful. Most people would have spread that out over more than one day.”

Aran laughed, the sound cracking, bitter and hollow, and echoing strangely through the mostly quiet camp. “I have no idea what’s happening anymore.” 

“That makes two of us.” He folded his hands on his knee, scooting a little closer to the fire. “For days now, we’ve been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it. ‘Bad for morale’ would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

“If it was that bad, why did you stay? Cassandra said you were free to go.”

“I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this… Thousands of people died on that mountain. I was almost one of them. And now there’s a hole in the sky. Even I can’t walk away and just leave that to sort itself out.”

Aran bowed his head, staring into the flames. “Yeah. It’s… yeah.” He frowned, “It's not-“ He glanced over at the dwarf, “You know I’m not… it’s pure luck that I escaped.”

“Good luck or bad?”

Aran rolled his eyes, “If I knew that, I’d feel a lot better. Either way.”

“You might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going. Heroes are everywhere. I’ve seen that. But the hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

“I’ve more than considered it. The first time, a demon attacked me. Then, I was on my way back to the northern road and I found those notes Adan had been looking for. I couldn’t just let people get sick because he didn’t have the recipes he needed, could I? Then I was going to just head north right after talking to Mother Giselle-”

“But she wanted you to go to the Chantry in Val Royeaux.”

“Right. Which, as you’ll recall, was a rousing success…”

Varric lifted a bushy golden brow.

Aran scrubbed a hand through his hair, shaking loose some freshly fallen snow. “I want this thing closed. I want to know what happened, to the Conclave, to the Divine, to me-“ He flexed his left hand, eyeing his palm and its pulsing light with suspicion. “I’m not the Herald of Andraste. I’m not the herald of anything. I’m no one.”

“You’re not no one. I heard Josie calling you Lord Trevelyan.” He cocked his head to the side, “Which is Ostwick. So I was right.”

Aran smirked, “Yes, it’s Ostwick. But no, it’s… a technicality. Luck of breeding. And even so, I’m the seventh of seven. I can count on my fingers and toes the number of times anyone’s called me ‘lord’ before I came here. It’s not me. And even if it was,” he went on, rolling over whatever Varric had opened his mouth to say, “it’s not- I’m- Maker, I hate them looking at me. All the time. Like I’m about to… I don’t know. Float or shit roses.”

Varric choked on a laugh. “That I’d like to see.” 

“They don’t know me. They wanted me dead a week ago. And now they just… watch me expectantly. As though I’m supposed to save them all.”

The dwarf rested a chin on his fist, thoughtfully. “Well, you kind of did that already. Kind of.” He repeated at Trevelyan’s look. “It’s a start.”

“Making enemies of the Templars and failing to convince anyone in the chantry to come to our support… yes. I’ve been a rousing success so far.”

“No one said hero-ing was easy.”

“You told me to run.”

“I said 'consider running'.” Varric tapped his fingertips together. “And you did. And you’re still here. Why?”

Aran shook his head, “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

“Well, maybe while you do, we can try to help just a little more.”

Trevelyan nodded absently, flexing his fingers. “Cullen says we need manpower. Have you heard of The Bull’s Chargers?”

“Can't say that I have,” Varric shook his head, “but that doesn’t mean much. Kirkwall had strict rules about what mercs could work the city. You thinking of hiring them?” 

“I’m thinking we should at least see. Right?”

“Don’t ask me, you’re the Herald.”

Tired blue eyes lifted from the flames, the frustration petering into humor as he saw Varric’s tongue in cheek expression. 

“If they’re going to say it, you might as well have fun with it. You grew up with nobility, even if you don't feel like one of them. Maybe throw your cape around a little.”

“I don’t wear a cape.”

“Maybe you should. I bet Harrit would make you a nice one, maybe with Trevelyan livery.”

“A cape with a big picture of a horse on it?”

“That’s your livery?” He paused, “Is it at least a pretty horse?”

Aran laughed, the tension he’d been carrying suddenly cracking apart, “Plough.”

“Now you’re just shitting me.”

“'Modest in temper, bold in deed'… not so creative in design.” The ‘Herald’s’ laughter softened to a chuckle as Varric snorted. “So… Storm Coast.” He smiled the first true smile he’d worn since the whole mess had begun. “Maker, I’ve missed the sea. It’ll be good to see it again.”

“Ah… I ‘sea’ what you did there.”

Aran laughed despite himself, “It'd be ‘swell’ if you’d tone down the puns.”

“I’ve never been one to submit to pier-pressure.”

\-----

Between the rain and the salt spray of the waves crashing against the shore, Aran was in heaven. Cassandra looked like she was one inch away from either combusting or rusting. It might have been the water logging her armor.

“Right, we’re here, let’s seas the day!” Aran beamed. 

Or it might have been the puns. 

“Shell we see these mercenaries then?” Varric asked.

“Enough!” She snapped, “I’ve had enough of both of you.”

Aran glanced sideways at Varric, “She wants me to be more sofishticated.”

The Seeker groaned, ready to let loose a lecture on the duties of his representation if the Inquisition again when the sounds of fighting ahead distracted her. Solas tilted his head to the side, watching her rush forward into the fray. “It’s possible you two have made her suicidal.”

“Nah, she likes us,” Varric locked a bolt into his bow, “otherwise she’d have made us go in first. Isn’t that right, Ar-“ he looked around, “Huh, where’d he go?”

Aran slipped through the battle, looking for weak spots. His dagger slipped in and out, illuminating the weaknesses in armor- the bands of a greave, the laces of a breastplate, the cords holding a quiver to a back. Everywhere he went, sheaths fell off, bowstrings snapped, armor fell off or open. Figuring out the difference between the Chargers and the enemy was an easy matter, thankfully. The Chargers were the ones who were everywhere, whooping and swearing, like a swarm of drunk, happy wasps. And in the middle of them, the giant qunari swinging a massive hammer around him as though it were a light staff, knocking men back and shields asunder. 

“Chargers!” The qunari shouted as the last enemy fell, “Stand down. Krem! How’d we do?”

“Five or six wounded, chief,” a young man in slapped together plate reported brusquely. “No dead.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Let the throat-cutters finish up, then break out the casks.”

Aran wiped down one of his knives with an oiled rag Varric had suggested, slipping it into the torso sheaths. 

“So, you’re with the Inquisition, huh? Glad you could make it. C’mon, have a seat, drinks are comin’.”

Aran glanced up, up, up. He’d expected the qunari to be talking to Cassandra, but she was away, sending a report back with one of Leliana’s agents. “Right, I mean, yes-” He sank onto a driftwood log, hoping that sitting would bring the giant of a man down to his level. Even sitting, the qunari was fallen than him by a head. He’d never seen a qunari up close, but the descriptions didn’t do this man justice. He was seven feet, at least, all brute strength and thick corded muscles, and there were those qunari horns, yes, but they weren’t anything like what he’d imagined. Long and twisted back from a scarred, intelligent face. “Iron Bull, I presume,” he said, putting on the ‘deep nobility voice’ he’d been practicing with Varric on the way down. 

“Yeah, the horns usually give it away.”

Aran took pains not to allow his gaze to slip back up to those horns. Maker, they were stunning. He itched to touch them, to see if they were rough or smooth. How deep the ridges really were. How much was shadow. Instead, he focused on the young man in plate mail from before, as he trudged over to them with a couple of massive wood tankards. 

“I assume you remember Cremesius Aclassi, my lieutenant.”

“Good to see you again,” Krem acknowledged. 

Aran nodded to him, “Same,” curious about the subtle shift of… pride? in the young man’s eyes.

“Throat-cutters are done, chief.”

“Already? Have them check again, I don’t want any of those Tevinter bastards getting away. No offense, Krem.”

“None taken. At least a bastard knows who his mother was. One up on you qunari, right?” Krem smirked, turning back to check again.

“So,” Iron Bull said, drawing Aran’s attention back from the shore littered with bodies. “You’ve seen us fight. We’re expensive, but we’re worth it. And I’m sure the Inquisition can afford it.”

“The Chargers seem like an excellent company,” Aran equivocated, wondering where the hell Cassandra was and why Iron Bull seemed to think that he was the one to haggle with. Maybe his green-ness was exactly the reason. 

“They are, but you’re not just getting the boys. You’re getting me. You need a front line bodyguard, I’m your man. Whatever it is, demons, dragons, the bigger the better.”

Aran stayed where he was as Iron Bull stood, muscles flexing with the movement. It had to be in purpose, didn’t it? The words, the muscles. It was worth tilting his head back at the odd angle to avoid standing and showing just what part of his body he wanted guarded at this particular moment. 

“And there’s one other thing. Might be useful, might piss you off.”

He squinted up at the qunari as the sun pierced the storm clouds behind him. 

“Ever heard of the Ben-Hassrath?” 

“They’re a qunari organization, right? The equivalent of your guards and city watch?”

“I’d go closer to spies, but yeah. That’s them. Or, well, us. The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic out of control like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join the Inquisition, close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from Ben-Hassrath agents all over Orlais. Sign me on, I’ll share them with your people.”

He supposed he was supposed to be impressed, or angry, or horrified… Instead, he was curious. “You’re a qunari spy and you just… told me?” 

“Whatever happened at the Conclave thing, it’s bad. Someone needs to get that Breach closed. So whatever I am, I’m on your side.”

“You still could have hidden what you are.”

“From something called the Inquisition? I’d have been tipped sooner or later. Better you hear it right up front from me.”

It was a good point. One that had Aran reconsidering the number of things he himself had failed to disclose up front to that self-same Inquisition. Maybe he needed to at least have a talk with Josephine. Explain how little she should be relying on whatever she’d heard about his family. She shouldn't be expecting people to come out of the woodwork for Bann Trevelyan’s youngest son, regardless of what kind of weird light glowed from his hand. “Alright. You’re in.” 

“Excellent. Krem, tell the men to finish drinking on the road. The Chargers just got hired.”

“What about the casks, chief? We just opened them up. With axes.”

“Find some way to seal them. You’re Tevinter, right? Try blood magic.” He glanced back at Aran, “We’ll meet you back at Haven.”

Blood magic. The words got his mind churning. “Ah…” Aran cleared his throat. “Just… hold on.”

“Second thoughts already?”

“No, I just- Let your men drink. We’ve got a camp just up from the coast. You can stay with us, and I’ll touch base with our agents in the meantime.” Aran kept his eyes on the crashing waves against the shore. He’d wanted a few days on the coast, but now his thoughts were whirling. Damn it. 

“You… just going to sit there?”

Aran rested his fingertips at the bridge of his nose. “I’m thinking,” he said.

“Not what you’re known for.”

Blue eyes snapped from the waves to the qunari, “And just what am I known for?”

“The great and pious Herald of Andraste,” Iron Bull grinned. The effect was bracing. It had to be on purpose. “Closing rifts with that thing on your hand.”

Aran flexed his glowing palm reflexively. “And?”

“Not much else, to be honest.” There was that damned smile again. “And that’s saying something, coming from the Ben-Hassrath. We know things about everyone. Especially nobility. I can tell you things about your brothers and sisters that you probably don’t even know.”

“You think so?” Aran tilted his head to the side. 

Iron Bull hummed quietly. “But until the Conclave… no word about Aran Trevelyan. Then again, we’ve only had about a week to dig into you specifically.”

“You’ll have to let me know what you find out.”

The qunari eyed him, that smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Will I?” he asked, thoughtfully. “Have to?”

“Herald!” Varric’s voice pulled him out of the dark pools of Bull’s gaze with its joviality. The thick-fingered hand that dropped to his shoulder was an anchor. “Did we make a deal?”

“That’s up to Josephine.” He tried to relax under the calloused palm, “And Leliana. Varric, the Iron Bull. The Iron Bull, Varric.”

“Remembered the ‘the’,” Iron Bull commented, sounding pleased. “Everyone always forgets.”

“Probably because it’s a mouth full.”

“You bet it is.”

Aran blinked. Grinned. 

Varric glanced between them. “So… they’re staying…?”

“At the Inquisition camp, tonight, yes.” Aran lifted a brow at Iron Bull who nodded. 

“I’ll tell the boys,” he said before turning and heading towards his men.

“Big guy,” Varric commented.

“Everyone seems big to you.”

“Short jokes,” Varric sighed. “That’s beneath you.”

Aran smirked, gaze returning to the waves. “Do you think the Grand Enchanter might be able to help find a missing mage?”

“You know one?”

“My sister. We haven’t seen her since the Rebellion started. She was in the Circle, but when everything happened… no one knows where she went. Or if she’s okay.”

“No harm asking.” He whistled low, “So you’re going to go ask the mages for help. The Seeker will love that.”

“It won’t be the first way I’ve disappointed her.”

“Now, now, you’re still alive. And unchained. It took me weeks of spinning stories to get out of her interrogation chair.”

Aran snorted. “Tough locks?”

“Tough armored guards with swords.”

“Ah.”

“What did you find down there, by the way?”

“Where?” Aran met Varric’s unwavering, curious gaze. 

“The cells under the chantry? Speaking of which, why does a chantry have cells anyway?” 

“All knowledge is worth having and never sharing?” He rubbed his hands together, flexing them in the salt spray and cold, “Books, scrolls… I was hoping one of them would be about the Temple, maybe help me remember...something, anything…” He shook his head, “I don’t know, maybe the mages can help with that, too. It’s a place to start, anyway. What could go wrong?”

“Famous last words. Let’s pretend you didn’t say them.”


End file.
